


words are easy; like the wind

by siriuslydraco



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Multiship, posts from tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-12-30 13:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslydraco/pseuds/siriuslydraco
Summary: prompts I received on tumblr that i'll be posting herehope you enjoy!





	1. it's easier to love an illusion

**Author's Note:**

> this was for direwolf-kings-in-the-north who asked "Jonsa + 'Oh give me fire and illusion and don't let me sleep' (from 'Dinard' by Iwan Rheon)?"

It’s cold outside; the plains of ice and frost and unforgiving snow falls rapidly upon the North and beats against the windows that are shut as tightly as they’re allowed. But it’s warm in Jon’s arms, and for a moment Sansa can forget the winter war that is coming, and the dead that march with it. 

Each kiss upon her sweating skin is one she both relishes and detests all at once. Part of her, that Stark part of her that is stubborn and resilient and _cold_ wants to shove him away and banish him from Winterfell entirely. But inside still lives a girl who wishes for the longest of summers and the promise of princes; and it’s _that_ part of her that causes her to abandon reason and draw him closer. 

 _They will not sleep tonight,_ she knows, _she will not let him._

The warmth from the blazing fire makes their skin sticky with heat and they tumble onto the rug with intertwined limbs and panting mouths meeting in a kiss so damning she feels she should throw herself in front of a weirwood and confess her sins.She bites him as she kisses him, and she can hear him groan and wince against her mouth; the steely taste of blood trickling onto her tongue. 

 _Good,_ she thinks. _I want him to feel pain. To feel the pain I did when he left me for **her**. _

Is it silver hair and violet eyes he thinks of when he rips apart the ivory cloth that has clung to Sansa’s body with perspiration? Is it foreign ways of love making that he longs for? Not the blind passion that Sansa clumsily shows him; her hands fumbling towards his breeches and her lips kissing in a way he’s surely not used to. Sansa’s never had a lover, only men who hurt her and she shuns the thought that Jon will hate her inexperienced ways. 

The castle sleeps and so does the North, but she can not help but feel that outside their door, the whole of Westeros listens to their sin. _No better than Cersei Lannister;_ the words come to mind when she aches to feel him somewhere- _anywhere_ ; her hips bucking towards his. 

He whispers something in her ear when his body is stuck to hers, sweating and panting and inside of her in a way that makes her see stars. It is not her name he whispers, but one so foreign and soft and she can feel her heart shatter inside of her; pleasure trickling into pain in the most cruel way. 

She will imagine that he is her Prince who burns with fire just for her, and as he lays atop her; spent and basking in the last remnants of pleasure she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. For tonight he will be hers, and _only_ hers. 

But then the morning comes and the frost bites harsher, and in the blinding light of sun and snow the illusion is broken. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt for @sansalannistark

It had seemed like a good idea at first, to accept Ned Stark’s invitation to come and stay at his family’s beach house. It had been what they’d always done every summer since Jaime’s sister married Ned’s best friend. It used to be them; the Stark’s, Lannisters and Baratheons- all underneath the same beaming sun, sweating and enjoying the summer that always seemed to go by too quickly.

Jaime however, had never enjoyed himself as much as the others had. He’d always preferred sitting inside under a cloud of cigar smoke and drinking scotch with Ned and Robert, all ignoring the fact they’d hated one another as teenagers. He’d never splashed in the sea that was just down the cobbled path from the house, he’d never laid out on printed beach towels like Ned’s oldest sons or took part in the ludicrous games of volleyball they all seemed to enjoy so much.

But Robert died and for almost five whole summers the annual tradition of staying at Winterfell died away too, the sun and sea remaining untouched by childish fun, and the bottles of scotch Ned kept in a cabinet lay collecting dust. But for some reason, Ned had decided to once again holiday at the beach house, extending invitations to Cersei and her children, and to Jaime himself.

His sister, holed away in sunny Los Angeles had sworn to him she was coming; had _promised_ him over crackly phone service that she was packing up the kids and going. Besides, she told him, Myrcella missed the Stark girls. Sansa in particular. Jaime had remembered then, the sun freckled red head that had made soppy eyes at his nephew.

She hadn’t come however. Cersei was nowhere to be seen, and Jaime knew as he stepped from his car that she had lied. Plain and simple; his sadistically minded sister was _not_ showing up. He was left then to wander up the steps to the front door, with half a mind to turn back around but couldn’t once he rang the doorbell.

He was expecting the stern faced Eddard Stark to greet him with a gruff hello and a firm handshake, but it was not Ned who greeted him, it wasn’t even Catelyn.

He tipped his hat off the moment he saw her in gentlemanly fashion, and the suitcase he held in one hand began to slip from his sweaty grip. She was a vision, the girl before him, eyes as clear as the sea that raged behind the house and hair as bright as the bonfire’s in October. She was radiant as she smiled but Jaime could not even appreciate her face.

There she stood, _Sansa Stark_ , a far cry from the girl who had worn pretty sundresses and ribbons, and Jaime could not take his eyes off of her. She was long legged; limbs the color of milk with sun kissed smatterings of freckles on her collarbones and thighs. The year was 1954, but Sansa sure as hell did not dress appropriate. Not like all those doe eyed girls who wore cashmere sweaters and hoop skirts; like those girls Jaime talked with in the dance halls.

She was wearing a two piece- sky blue- the color of her eyes. The shorts clinging to her hips in a way that made Jaime believe she’s all woman now and nothing else, the little white buttons down the sides just begging to be opened.

“Jaime” she greets him, voice soothing and pleasant to his ears. Like the sound of the rushing waves that he could hear. 

“Sansa” his voice is rough but he doesn’t even feel ashamed to hide it. Sansa must know how men look at her; a girl like that must know how _everyone_ looks at her. Behind her shoulder looms the hulking figure of her father, and all previous thoughts of her fly out of his head as lightly as the summer breeze.

With one hand shake and a pat on the shoulder, Jaime is ushered inside by the head of the Stark household and is forced to converse with people he’d rather not be with. Damn Cersei for her ability to lie so convincingly. If she had of been here it would’ve been easier to deal with this vacation.

But it is _not_ easy, and when Jaime lies awake at night he begins to wonder whether it still would have been hard even with the company of his family. He has been here four weeks- four torturous weeks where he’s had to witness the eldest girl strut around in seemingly modest attire. They seem harmless, her two pieces, her younger sister wears them too, but Jaime does not watch Arya like he watches Sansa.

Sansa wears her shorts tighter, her brassieres a little smaller and sways her hips so delicately that even her cousin Jon watches her with his tongue hanging out. Jaime should not want a girl so young, but he can not help it. How scandalous it’d be for him to act on his impulses. Ned would surely drown him in the sea.

But Sansa- the little nymph- looks at him with hooded eyes and he swears she dons those little bikinis just for his benefit. 

But he’s spent most days avoiding her, and barely converses with her unless it’s at the dinner table; where he swears she once ran her foot along his calf. He refuses offers to tag along for swimming in the evening and tries his hardest to not run into her in the dark hallways of the house. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he did. 

Sansa sits now at the kitchen table; wearing the sky blue two piece she had on the first time he knocked on the door those four weeks ago. Jaime can hear the rest of the family yelling and screeching down by the water, the open french doors carrying their sounds and the night time breeze inside the house. 

Jaime did not want to join them, but preferred to act as if he’s reading the paper while watching Sansa suck on a cherry lollipop the color of her hair. Her lips are red from it, like rose buds as they wrap around and suck in a way that makes Jaime twinge in his trousers. She’s oblivious to him watching her- _or perhaps she isn’t_ \- as she reads through one of those Millie comics that she collects.

Her tongue darts out and licks her bottom lip, and Jaime tries and fails to suppress a groan. He coughs rather abruptly and stupidly when her eyes snap to his- some sort of devilish smirk on her beautiful face. She’s an eighteen year old walking sin, and Jaime sure as hell will burn with desire for her.

“Why didn’t you go down with the others?” she asks innocently, her eyes darting to the billowing sheer curtains that are twisting in the night wind. Jaime can see the fire that the Starks have lit way down on the beach from where he sits at the kitchen counter, and he wonders if he’ll live eternally in a fire similar to that for wanting her the way he does. 

“I don’t fancy standing around a bonfire tonight, Sansa” he says her name with such roughness that it causes a shiver to run down her body. From where he sits he’s completely unaware that she squeezes her legs tighter under the table “why haven’t you gone down? I heard your sister say some of the boys from town were coming” 

“I don’t like boys my age” she shrugs, once again popping that god forsaken lolly into her mouth and twisting it around; those piercing eyes of hers never leaving his. There is a carnal instinct that rises up inside with a ferocity that scares him, and he wants to storm over there and do unspeakable things to her. But she is eighteen and he is old enough to be her father. 

“You don’t?” Jaime can’t help but muse, pretending to not really care as he flicks the page on the broadsheet he’s reading. It is now early July 1954, as says the date on the paper. _Oh how time flies when one is being tortured by underage girls._

“No, I don’t” she’s out of her chair then, those long, bare limbs stalking towards him and her eyes sparkling with the diminishing innocence she has left “but you already know that” 

He can’t help but gulp like a flailing school boy when she places her hands on his thighs, those lips of hers that are stained red and sticky curling up into a smile that threatens to knock him off his stool. He would have never thought that Sansa Stark, little Sansa with the red pig tails and the freckled cheeks would be so sinfully parting his legs to stand between; her fingers tracing his inner thighs.

Jaime is frozen where he sits, all previous experience with women banishing from his mind and all he’s left with is the knowledge of what he wants to do with her and the fear that if one of her brothers or Ned would walk in then he’s dead. There is something about her though, some little spark of innocence that hides beneath the excited desire that now clouds her eyes.

“Do you like women _your_ age?” she asks, and giggles when he gulps again “of course you don’t” she answers her own question “I’ve seen the way you look at me” 

“Sansa I never meant to be inappropriate I was -” 

Her lips taste like cherries and sugar, and they’re sticky against his own when she smashes them to his. He hadn’t anticipated being silenced by a kiss, but it’s so sweet and devilish all at once. Her small hands are still rubbing his thighs and he can’t help but fist his in her long hair, twisting and pulling her head this way and that so he can kiss her more deeply.

His hands can’t help but run over her body, feeling over the fabric of her tight two piece and down her freckled back burnt by sun, and over the curve of her backside. She moans into his mouth when he squeezes, her tongue stalling it’s actions with his for a moment. She’s wanton for him, he can tell, and some self surety and confidence comes back to him then when he knows how much- his hand making it’s way to the front of her shorts. When his hand is there he can tell _just_ how much.

She pulls away them, lips red and swollen and her eyes alighting with some sort of fear that excites Jaime in a way it shouldn’t. But her lips are curled at the edges, and she keeps one arm thrown around his neck- no attempt on her part to move away.

 _How long I’ve wanted to do that,_ he thinks _, and it is her that makes the first move. Who would’ve thought?_

“I’m going to take a swim by the caves” she tells him, an invitation hidden in her breathless tone. She pulls away from him then, legs shaky from pleasure and excitement as she turns and walks towards the open doors. She’s beautiful with her Tully hair blowing in the breeze, her sun tanned back and perfect backside facing him, and then she turns around; the beauty of her face in the moonlight too much for him to bear. 

“Are you coming?” Sansa asks him, like she has for the past two weeks; always inviting him along with her and her siblings. But this time they’ll be alone, and this time Jaime joins her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for effleuresense on tumblr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the water hears and understands 
> 
> the ice does not forgive
> 
> \- leigh bardugo

She does not forgive him so easily. When Jon returns North with Brienne of Tarth and Ser Davos he is welcomed back not with warm smiles and sweet greetings, but with a castle and a Lady so ravaged by winter they are both now frozen beyond repair. Winterfell has suffered, and so has Sansa. She is stoic and rigid with him, her words and gestures so cutting and harsh Jon feels as if the Night Kings blade would sting less. Once so ethereal and pleasant, she now stands with a straightness and poise akin to both her mother and Cersei Lannister. She calls him _Your_ _Grace_ , never Jon. Not anymore.

He who was crowned King in the North, and named a Stark by Sansa alone now feels more an outsider in this castle than he ever had. He is once again that bastard boy seated at the back of the great hall, and she is Lady Catelyn, blue eyes harsh as ice and hair burning with the fire she holds within.

Sansa also holds winter in her bones, and buries summer in her mind within the crypt of childhood and promises. She is the ice that clings to the grey stones of Winterfell, the frost that clings to the weirwood leaves and the sharp kiss of snow that falls upon the ground. Winter is here. And summer is so far away, Sansa will not melt so easily.

Not like Arya. Arya who is like water, rushing and battling against the current of war. She has listened to Jon, understood why he has done what he had to do. Why he bent the knee. Arya has much blood on her hands, the freshest being Littlefingers; a crimson and bright stain against what little soul she has left. She should scare Jon, he knows, he can tell she is much changed when he catches that murderous glimmer in her eyes.

She will not bend the knee, she says, her sister is her only Queen. But she will fight with Daenerys Targaryen and her beasts when the time comes.

Jon is glad then, that he has one sibling who understands. Sansa will not listen, will not ally herself with the foreign invader, and all Bran does is look at Jon with a contemplating look; as if he desires to tell him something. It unsettles Jon greatly, but whatever it is that the three eyed raven wishes to say, he keeps it hidden and secret for now. Perhaps it is not the right time.

She converses with Brienne and Podrick late into the night, dark circles permanently carving themselves beneath her blue eyes and Jon can see she is weary. Weary of talk about grain stores and armories and the imminence of death. He wishes to speak with her, but he has tried and every time she throws some sharp quip at him.

_You have no place to speak, Your Grace, you gave away the North. Why not go back to your Dragon Queen, she after all is the one you truly serve._

_I serve you_ , he wants to tell her, _I’ll only ever serve you._ But he can not bring himself to say it, because he fears winter and it’s horror, and the Lady of Winterfell is the embodiment of it.

She does not even forgive him when the war is over and Daenerys Targaryen is dead. Not even when he knows his last name is not Stark, but one of Old Valyria. Not even when he, as the true heir to the Iron Throne, declares that there shall be Seven Kingdoms again. Or when he names her Queen in the North. She instead chooses to remain as cold as the granite likeness of dead Starks that rest beneath the crypts of Winterfell. 

Bran speaks now in hushed whispers, and does not now hide ominous prophecies within his words. He prefers to sit in dark rooms and beneath trees that speak to him in riddles. Jon barely sees him anymore, and he knows there is no use looking for the brother he once knew, that Bran is gone and the three eyed raven is in his place. Sansa speaks to him just as rigid, and when Arya leaves to travel with the Baratheon blacksmith Jon is left truly alone. 

Solitude is no longer rare, and Jon seeks it in the shadow of the godswood; the red eyes of gods more company than his own family. The ghosts of Ser Davos and Tormund weigh heavily on his shoulders; and their languid strides more heavy in death shadow every step he takes. The long night is over, and with the finality of it brings a warmth to the North that had not been there before. 

But snow still falls, and ice still lives in the castle. 

Underneath the red leaves of the weirwood, Jon feels more sheltered than he ever has and he is content to sit there all night long and polish the blade that won him a war. The dim sun makes the surface look even more smooth than it did before, the scratches and indents upon the steel all but invisible in the blur of light. He catches his reflection in it and almost stiffens, for he could have sworn it was the face of his father looking at him. Not the dragon prince; never him. His _true_ father. 

But the ghost of Eddard Stark is gone when he looks again, and the spirit of his father joins the others that stand behind him. 

The sound of the soft rustling of skirts against the frozen ground makes him look up, and before his eyes walks another ghost. She is as beautiful as ever- Lady Sansa- and he feels the foreboding presence of the gods even greater than before as he eyes her. She always looks like the suns lover when its beams shine on her like a godly beacon. She is protected by some greater force, he reckons, the ethereal beauty of her a gift from above. 

She walks towards him, straight backed and hard eyed and in her hands she carries a bunched up scroll. If only they knew, how in this moment they were recreating one that had happened before, one imprinted on eternity that they now walk in the steps of. But they do not know, how very like the Lord and Lady that ruled here in simpler times. Jon has heard the whispers though, of the common folk. How they wish for Jon to marry his flame haired cousin and secure the North even though there are no threats any longer. But he does well not to listen so intently, and he will not allow himself to wish for something so idle. 

"Your Grace" she calls him as she stops before him, holding out the scroll for him to read. He looks up at her then, and regrets it instantly. The depths the color of the Riverlands water shows nothing of the coldness she so sharply displays around him. They hold a pain in them that Jon himself sees inside his heart. 

"Sansa" he greets her, gently taking the scroll from her hands. Their fingers brush off one another's and she bristles where she stands- her eyes tearing away from him. 

"Arya is coming home" Sansa informs him before he can even read one word of the black scrawl "with Gendry. They are to be married here in Winterfell. With our blessings of course" 

"Aye, she has my blessing. Gendry as well" Jon remarks fondly with a nod of his head, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lip. He thanks whatever gods he sits beneath that he can live in a world where his sister _can_ be married. It is no longer a world full of the marching dead. 

"A Baratheon and a Stark. Finally betrothed and married, it seems rather fitting, don't you think?" she asks him, once again turning her eyes to his face. He wants to tell her how he wants it to be fitting for a Stark to marry a Targaryen, but he is not Rhaegar and she is not Lyanna. Jon will not thrust the past onto his present desires and hope that he could rectify the union that started a war. 

"Aye, it is" he tells her, leaning Longclaw against the white bark of the weirwood and standing. He doesn't miss how she steps back slightly, her eyes dropping to her feet and back again. 

"I'm glad she's coming home" Sansa says, but he knows the words that are hidden beneath the ones she has spoken. She is glad Arya is coming home so she will have some peace- a relief from all this tension the war has brought between the King and Queen. It must be some cruel jape from the gods, Jon thinks often, that he be a King and she a Queen yet he can not have her as he wants. 

"I thought it'd be different" he says, black and grey eyes sweeping around the godswood. 

"What would be?" she asks him, a trickle of softness melting the ice in her voice. 

"Coming home" he answers plainly with a shrug "I thought when I defeated the Night King and reclaimed the North that everything would be different. That we would be different. But you still haven't forgiven me" 

"You expect me to so easily forgive the fact that you bent the knee to a foreign queen who wanted your people and your _family_ to be submissive to her rule? You wanted me to forgive the fact that you gave away our home? The home I was raped and tortured in, the home that Theon was tortured in. The North that our brother went to war for? The North he and Mother died for? You want me to forgive the fact that you.......lay with her" the end words are a whisper and he can tell with a piercing stab to his heart that the fact he lay with Daenerys is the true reason she can not look at him longer than a minute. 

"Sansa please I did it -" 

"Don't tell me you did it for the North. Don't tell me you did for our family, or for me Jon Snow. _Don't_ " she warns, a hand held up as she steps away from his attempt to grab her. He is crushed as she backs away, the fact that she has finally uttered his name not even a comfort for him.

"I never stopped fighting for the North, just like I'll never stop fighting for you. I told you once and I'll tell you again, the North is a part of me. You, Sansa, are a part of me" he knows then as she backs away from him, eyes watering with tears, that his words have resonated something in her.

"I will write to Arya and give her our blessings" is all she says, voice wavering but hard and Jon's heart plummets to the godswood floor as she turns and walks away in a flurry of grey cloak and red hair.

She is ice even though the summer creeps back into the North, and he knows then that the winter is eternal in her. A Stark born in summer and tempered in snow, and she, like ice does not forgive.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for anonymous on tumblr

 

 

 

The ice starts to harden when Jon comes home, and by his side stands the silver haired Targaryen queen that eyes the north with the most solemn discontent. It disgruntles Sansa; the way that Daenerys Targaryen turns her nose up at the home Sansa has fought so hard to keep, the way she parades around the courtyards of Winterfell like she owns it and she can not stand the fact that she fits beside Jon so easily.

He calls her his _queen_ , and the title he bestows upon her is one not easily agreed upon. The men of the northern houses that gather within the great hall of Winterfell make their opinions of her known; quite loudly and boisterously and declare that Sansa Stark is their queen. Not a foreign invader who hides behind the power of a name and the ferocity of dragons. But when she sits with them, all fierce with her Targaryen eyes, they are quiet and dare not declare another woman their Queen.

It is all so overwhelming having Daenerys live within the walls of Winterfell and to have her beasts roam the skies above it. With one word the Targaryen heir could have the Stark ancestral home burned to the ground, and it troubles Sansa to no end. Daenerys does not speak well of Sansa, and is not happy that she too has stood beside the Northern king in battle. But the cold and glaring looks she throws the Northern Lady does not bother Sansa as Daenerys intends.

It is the fact that she eyes her Lord Commander with a seedy sort of seduction hidden beneath her violet eyes that makes her toss and turn at night. Jaime Lannister had tried to kill the Mad Kings daughter once already, and sometimes Sansa wishes he’d try again.

The northern lords- although unwilling to trust her and Jon’s new union of kingdoms- can not deny her obvious beauty and the way they eye her as she walks through the stone and snow of Winterfell annoys Sansa completely. Jaime watches her sometimes; Lannister eyes narrowed and his jaw set tight but Sansa wonders whether he eyes her the same way Lord Umber does at dinner. Or perhaps it is with suspicion and mistrust that he watches her with and not something Sansa could not bear.  

The Lady of Winterfell- as hard eyed and cold as she appears- is someone completely different around her Lord Commander, and he is the only person who can melt her thick walls of ice. He watches her now, with Lannister green eyes in a room full of Northern grey and sees how tight she clenches her jaw and how her hands are fisted in the white fur of Ghost who lays at her feet beneath the table. The beast prefers the Lady to the King these days, and snaps and growls at the dragon that now sits proudly beside Jon- a look on her face that almost seems frozen.

She does not belong here at the council meeting- or in the North for that matter- not with that silver hair or those violet eyes or the passion for fire she holds within her bones. She is not like Sansa. Sansa who cares for her people as if they were a part of her. Sansa who is gentle and cunning all at once, but who is able to settle the most grievous of situations. Not like Sansa who is a Queen in every way, and not just because of a name.

She is not the Queen the Northerners now bow to however. The Mad Kings daughter who sits beside Jon is now slowly gaining favor among the people.

Jaime will not kneel. Not to this Queen. _Not ever_.

He finds these meetings an excuse to stare at Sansa while everyone else is occupied arguing and plotting battle strategies. As Lord Commander of the Northern army he should be more involved, but the painstaking beauty of the Lady is enough for him to abandon any responsibilities he may have.

He hadn’t thought that riding North to pledge himself to Catelyn Stark’s daughter would result in him becoming inexcusably in love with her. But it is the situation he is in now; and he does not wish to be out of it.

“You worry of food stores, Your Grace?” Jaime catches on, his eyes flickering to where Sansa sits. She is glaring with those blue eyes of hers narrowed to slits and her voice is high with stress. The _Your Grace_ at the end is offered as a jibe and nothing else; there is no respect in her tone, only humor. 

“I fear there are too many people in the North to feed come winter” Daenerys bristles in her chair at the tone in the Lady’s voice, and looks at her with a violet fury in her eyes. But Sansa just gazes back, and Jaime knows that if Arya Stark was here to witness Sansa’s lack of courtesy she’d be surely proud.

“Winter has come. It _is_ here” Sansa tells her, gripping Ghost’s fur tighter “it has been here for months. While you and my brother were flitting from Dragonstone to Kings Landing at your leisure the people here were dying from cold and hunger. There _are_ too many people to feed but we _will_ feed them all, with the grain we’ve been storing away. Perhaps there would be more food if wasn’t all burnt to the ground. Remind me again how that happened?”

“Perhaps you should ask your Lord Commander” Daenerys quips back, her eyes of purple fire flicking to Jaime and back to Sansa “after all he was there on the field of fire, he could tell you what carnage happens in battle”

“Perhaps he could” Sansa retorts coldly “but I am sure Ser Jaime would also comment on the lack of good judgement on your part that resulted in the burning of the food stores from the Reach. It’s funny to me how you sit here and speak of famine when your actions inadvertently caused it”

“Perhaps your Lord Commander could have inadvertently caused the destruction of Westeros if he had of succeeded in killing me. Or has he told you that?” her eyes of violet fury meet his of Lannister green and he clenches his jaw as tightly as Sansa clenches her fists in Ghost’s fur “it’s funny _to me_ how people declare for a Queen they once tried to murder”

“I have only one Queen. I’ve declared for no other” Jaime who had been silent through the exchange now speaks, and he feels every pair of eyes on his face. He cares only for one however, those blue eyes piercing into his soul from where he sits. Daenerys Targaryen bristles in her chair, and her shoulder brushes off of Jon’s. Perhaps the Kingslayer is mistaken but he sees the young King stiffen and lean slowly away from her touch. Are they not lovers? Surely the whispers have some truth in them, but Jon does not seem inclined to cloak himself in her presence.

“If you mean your sister then I am sure you hold no place here, Ser Jaime” his name coming from the Mad King’s daughter sounds like poison and his insides burn as if he’d drank a gallon of wildfire.

“I do not mean _my sister_ ” he feels he has spent too great a time in the North, for now ice has found itself in his tone of voice “she was no true Queen, she _is_ no true Queen. Sansa Stark is the only Queen I serve”

The room falls deadly quiet then, not even the giant beast at Sansa’s feet breathes and the Lady herself is stiff and rigid in her chair. Her eyes meet the Kingslayers, and upon the frozen plain of porcelain skin blossoms a blush Jaime has grown permanently fond of. Her eyes sparkle with the reflection of the roaring fire in the hearth, and Jaime knows not even the Dragon Queen would look so beautiful bathed in flames.

“This is petty” Jon’s voice rings throughout the silence “a squabble among women will not help us win this war. Ser Jaime, as kind as your intent, Daenerys Targaryen is the true Queen of Westeros. She is the _only_ queen”

At his words Sansa pushes herself from the table, Ghost’s huge head raising at the sharp sound of her chair scraping against the stone. Her eyes are hard blue ice that bore down into Stark grey, and the set of her mouth is tight as she glares at her brother. There is hurt there, undeniably, and each time she looks at the king Jaime can sense a part of her dies. Perhaps it isn’t only Lannisters that desire what they shouldn’t.

“If you’ll excuse me my lords. _Your Graces_. I feel rather tired, and am weary of this talk. Please Ser Jaime, if you could escort me to my chambers” she is gone then in a flurry of red curls and black lace and Jaime does not even have time to extend a simple courtesy such as bowing before he leaves after her.

She had not _needed_ him to escort her anywhere, but he knows she needs someone to listen to her furious ramblings that she’ll surely spew off as soon as her chamber door is closed. Jaime is happy to listen every time she pours her heart out to him, he’s happy to do anything as long as he gets to be with her.

He expects her to scald Jon’s inability to rule by himself, to curse his involvement with a Targaryen or cry over the fact he left her and came back with someone else. There is always a hurt in her voice when she speaks of Jon leaving the North, and Jaime often wants to ask her exactly how much Jon means to her, but he holds his tongue back each time. It is not the foolish King she lashes out her opinions on however, it is Jaime she turns on as soon as they are bathed in the warm candle light of her chamber.

“How could you be so mindless, Jaime?” she whirls on him, throwing her heavy black cloak onto the furs of her bed. She looks furious but the fire is casting shadows on her prominent cheekbones and her red hair is thrown over one shoulder. He cannot help but stare dumbly at her as she stands close in front of him, her eyes like the ice around the castle.

“Mindless, my Lady? I’ve done many half-witted things in my lifetime, but could I be reminded?” she huffs angrily as she storms away from him; not at all happy with his sarcastic tone or curved smile that creeps upon his face.

“How could declaring me your Queen have been a wise thing to do? Daenerys contests Jon’s very claim to the Northern throne and he is a King! What must she think now when you proclaim me your Queen before the whole Northern council?”

“The words of a former Kingsgaurd is not going to cause her to rebel against you, Sansa. She wants the Iron Throne, you do not. Although I would rather see you on it than a Targaryen” Jaime tells her, and from where she stands before the fire he can see her freeze.

She is reminded then of Petyr’s dream. How he had wanted the throne and her beside him; a dream that caused the destruction of her family.

“Do not say such things!” she all but hisses at him as she turns around “if Daenerys thought you were plotting to put me on the throne she would have us both burnt alive”

“I am not plotting. I’m merely stating that you would be a much more capable ruler than the Mad King’s daughter. You are a Queen in every way Sansa Stark, and you are the only Queen I’ll serve. I’ll not see a Targaryen sit on that blasted iron chair again. Not while I live”

“You are a foolish man, Jaime Lannister” there is a warning in her tone, but a smile on her lips and Jaime can not help but trace them with his eyes. He aches to take her in his arms and kiss her like he’s kissed her in his dreams. She is a beauty that he can not breathe around and when she’s standing as close as she is now he finds he can not think straight.

“I am, my Lady” he grins. _We’re all fools when we’re in love._ He does something completely foolish then as he pulls his sword from the belt around his hips, and before he knows it the cold stone meets his knee as he bends.

“Jaime Lannister! Get up from the ground this instant” she pushes against his shoulders, her eyes darting to the door. He does not heed her command even though he should, but stays where he is, his sword upon his knee.

“I rode North to pledge to you my services, to fulfill my oath to your lady Mother” he tells her, his eyes looking up at her from where he’s knelt “but I pledge to you now my loyalty and sword. You’re my Queen, from this day until my last”

“You really are a fool, Jaime” she tells him softly, and a shiver runs through his body when she leans down and takes his face in her hands.

“I’d be your fool, my Lady. Anything you’d ask I’d be it” he declares as he looks into her eyes. Sansa sees something in them then that should scare her; an unapologetic admiration that twinkles beneath the trademark Lannister green. She’s looked into eyes like those before and has never felt as safe as she does with him. He’s not like the other Lannisters- not really- he’s soiled and damaged inside and out just like she is, but he’s righteous and honorable underneath it all.

She can live with the bad things he’s done, if he can live with hers. So when she leans down and presses her lips to his she forgives herself for it immediately.

There is a clanging of steel on stone as he lets his sword fall to the ground as he stands; and the Lady of Winterfell is engulfed in his arms in an instant. He kisses her like he’s been longing for it for the longest of times and she delights in the fact that he’s wanted her just as much as she’s wanted him. She can not seem to worry of trivial things within his arms, and Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow do not cross her mind at all as Jaime lies her atop the furs on her bed.

_My Queen. My sweet Sansa._

Whispers echoed throughout the walls of Winterfell and in Sansa’s ear, and she melts into his touch. She never wants to leave the warmth Jaime gives her in this moment, and the way he holds her makes her feel as if he never wants to let her go.

She is his Queen, he had said, and so be it. She will be whatever Jaime declares she is, and so much more.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @ladywolfmd on tumblr

_1984_

It is with great difficulty that Jaime attends art classes on a Saturday morning- that blasted brother of his signing him up and making him go because it’d be good for him and something new to try. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jaime that the art classes are run by a trained therapist or that the description for the classes outlined how people with extreme stress disorders or anxiety could benefit from the calming nature of painting or sculpting.

Jaime notices, and he sees how each and every person who comes by the art studio on a Saturday morning has some sort of issue. There’s Gregor- the hulking giant who mutters to himself by the pottery corner and who has to count to twenty over and over to calm the anger issues he has. Then there’s Theon, who rocks back and forth while he talks to people and fidgets with the sleeves of his jumper.

Then of course there’s Jaime, who’d rather keep his story to himself and not let anyone close enough to find out. He’ll attend the ten lessons, and be done with it. Perhaps that’d make Tyrion back off a little, and maybe he wouldn’t try and push the idea of counselling on Jaime so much. He’d been doing so well. He had actually managed to get up in the mornings and smile without the strain of falsehood behind it; but just as quick as he had gotten it all back together it had fallen apart again.

It had started with the nightmares- the creeping terrors threatening to swallow him and stop his heart. He saw the fields of dying men, heard their screams and thrashed and shouted until he woke himself up. The war had ended in ‘75, but now almost ten years later the horror of his memories still hadn’t left him.

It’s freezing inside his pickup and he finds a shaking hand reaching for the box of Camels that are hidden behind the overplayed Queen tapes that are stashed in the glove box. He had never smoked before the war, only taking up the habit when he and Bronn were huddled in a damp trench in some shell of a Vietnam town. During the war the taste of tobacco came as a welcome distraction from the usual taste of blood and fear that rested on his lips.

Jaime’s hand shakes even more as he brings the cigarette to his open lips and his eyes close when he takes a long drag-the bitter taste of the tobacco leaf makes his tongue dry and his throat scratchy but his hand stops trembling.

The cigarette is beginning to dim at the end when he sees her; the flicker of red hair catching his eye.

Her name is a sin that tingles on his lips- the soft tremor of it aching to be said. _Sansa. Sansa Stark_. But he does not utter it aloud, only ever whispers it in the deepest parts of his mind. He’s old enough to be her father, he can tell that by looking at the rosy tint to her cheeks and the innocent way in which she smiles at him. She is young, and Jaime is worn and war beaten, and _old._

His tremor returns, and the stale butt of the cigarette partners with the lips he wishes to place on her body. He takes a drag and his nostrils burn along with his throat, but it is a welcome distraction from the beauty that now makes her way into the studio.

Jaime would be lying if he said he didn’t attend the lessons purely for her alone, but it is the truth- his truth that he finds berates him during long nights where he has nothing but her face to think of. He doesn’t know her story- doesn’t know why she attends the art therapy class or why there are times when she escapes within herself and does not speak. She had started the classes late; walking into the room with shaking hands and a meek smile and had taken up the station beside Jaime. It’s where she stays now each class, and they have settled into a comfortable routine of easy conversation- always staying away from the topic of why each of them need therapy.

He sighs heavily and runs two trembling hands through the mess of blonde hair on his head; mentally preparing himself for the three hours he has to spend here. For what feels like the hundredth time he curses his brother for signing him up- Tyrion’s name always followed by an ensemble of swear words. He hates that he needs therapy of any sort, but the fact he has to work through his past in the form of painting and sculpting is what irritates him most. He used to paint all the time, but now it’s just another thing that’s tainted by his issues.

The studio isn’t really a studio at all; just a small room in the town hall that is used for ballet on Monday and children’s martial arts on Wednesday. It’s rearranged purposefully each Saturday to accommodate the ten or so therapy clients that attend these ridiculous lessons. Like always the art easels are spread around the room and the smell of clay and acrylic paint clings heavy in the air.

Jaime sees her then; like a splash of red and blue on a canvas as she stands tucked away in the corner like she normally is. She’s always a vision- Sansa Stark- and he swallows thickly as she fingers her long heavy hair and sweeps it over one shoulder. She wears a blue sundress that is spattered with tiny white daisies and he can’t help the twitching smile that suddenly covers his face- she is eternally gentle and beautiful. So so beautiful.

“Hey” he coughs deeply- not missing how she jumps slightly more than the normal person would. Her eyes are wide and blue as they look into his, but a lovely softness colors her face as she takes him in. The panic ebbs from her eyes as they cast themselves downwards; the frame of long black lashes casting shadows on her freckled cheeks.

“Hi, Jaime” his name sounds like a chorus of angels singing when she says it. His smile only gets wider. It’s odd how he has smiled more in the last two minutes with her than he has in the past week. Perhaps the bubbling happiness he feels when he’s with her is why he finds these lessons that much more bearable.

“I guess we’re early, huh?” he tells her, shrugging off his denim jacket. He doesn’t miss how her eyes go straight to his tanned forearms that are visible, and he aches to roll down his shirt sleeves. He’s covered in scars from war, and one ugly thick one stretches from his elbow to his wrist. But he’s seen the one’s on the tops of her thighs so he doesn’t flinch- he’ll bear his scars to her without complaint.

“That or no one is showing up” she tries an attempt to joke, but the effort is feeble. Her hands tremble as they fiddle with the paint brushes before her.

“I won’t complain if it’s just you and I” his voice is soft and his words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Her eyes the color of calm seas jump straight to his, and if it is possible for her to blush even more she does, the rosy pink expanding all the way to her hairline. Her bottom lip tremors with unsaid words, and he knows she wants to say something back but can not. She flinches then when the door opens abruptly and the hulking shadow of Gregor emerges in the room. He greets them with a gruff hello and makes his way to his station at the back- his presence ruining any further conversation between them.

Sansa is looking away from him when he looks back at her; her nervous hands twirling her hair around its fingers like an elementary schoolgirl but the electricity that always stays between them is more alight than ever. The lesson drags on like always, and their eccentric therapist spews on about the importance of creative expression in times of great sadness and hopelessness, but all Jaime focuses on is the young girl beside him and thinks of the many ways in which to start a conversation again.

Todays key word is calm- and each have to paint something that makes them calm. Jaime thinks of the sea then, and how he used to watch the tide come in when he was younger. Happier times- simpler times without pain and grief and the aching haul of battle. But when he starts painting the rushing waves along the shore he can not help but think of Sansa’s eyes. It does not make him calm then, but makes him ache for something he can not have.

She is unattainable and too young, and he does not know what story lies behind her. Perhaps thinking of her will only do him more harm than good, but when she is standing this close to him he can’t help but think of anything other than her.

Her presence steadies him for some reason; his heart no longer so heavy when he is with her. Perhaps he should paint her instead of the sea, he thinks, then scoffs at himself for his love struck stupidity.

The lesson ends then and leaves him with an unfinished painting and a mind that now needs more therapy than he did at the start. The rest file out of the studio then in a murmur of conversation- each of them more scarred than the next, and Jaime can not help but look after them with a sorry heart.

“I wouldn’t complain either, you know” he hears from beside him; the voice so quiet and gentle and he turns around to see Sansa standing there with those eyes of blue ocean staring into his wild green ones.

“About what?” he asks her softly, furrowing his brow at her and he does not miss how her cheeks turn crimson. But there is an unfamiliar bravery in her eyes that sparks and makes his stomach flip with a newfound nervousness.

“If it was just you and I” she tells him as she takes a step closer to him- those pink lips moving together tantalizingly despite the fact her hands tremble “I wouldn’t complain at all”

“See you next week, Jaime” Sansa adds as she leaves him- an odd blanket of coldness swallowing him as she walks away, and he can not help but watch her go.

“See you next week, Sansa” he whispers but she is already gone through the door in a whirl of red curls and daisies. His heart pounds deafeningly against his chest as he replays her words around in his head, and for the first time in years he feels his heart no longer weighs so heavy.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was a jonsa prompt requested by archmaestergilly on tumblr  
> enjoy :)

Another sigh that is heavy and drawn out leaves her mouth as Sansa yet again checks her appearance in the mirror of her car. The electric blue of her eyes stand out against the perfectly applied eyeliner that wings out at the ends, but the bags that hang under them seem to take away from it all. Why sleep still seemed to evade her even after all these months is a mystery. _Shouldn’t she be over him by now? Shouldn’t sleep come easier?_

But it was the same when her father had died, and those sleepless nights had just become routine. The wondering and questioning never really had gone away no matter how much time had passed. Like grief; heartbreak was the same.

Her heart does a flip inside her chest, and she clasps a hand over the soft satin of her shirt, feeling the almighty thrumming of the muscle underneath it. The voice that she listens to too much seems to whisper to her to turn her car back on and reverse right out of the parking lot. But she tells it to shut up and swallows harshly. She _has_ to do this. It was bound to happen some time or other.

She can hear Robb’s voice in her head. _“Sansa, I have to invite him”_

Robb didn’t _have_ to invite Jon. He could have simply told him to never darken his doorstep again, just like Sansa had said to him when he had cheated on her all those months ago. But her life was never just that simple, she couldn’t just rid herself of him like any other woman was able to do. She was now forced into being at the same engagement party as him.

Her knees seem to knock against each other as she climbs out of her car, and despite the fact it is over twenty degrees outside she feels awfully cold. She looks at herself in the window outside the restaurant- skinny jeans, ivory blouse and ballet pumps. _Was she too casual? Too plain? Was her red hair too wild with those curls blowing in the summer breeze?_

She decides then and there that she can’t seem to care any longer if she looks beautiful or not. If she really was beautiful Jon wouldn’t have cheated on her with that silver haired witch.

She can hear her family as she walks to the upstairs lounge- boisterous and loud and treating the place like their own living room. Rickon doesn’t even look up from his phone, that silly grin on his face that he so often wears when texting his girlfriend Shireen. Bran is in deep conversation with Arya- who looks around the room with those massive eyes- silently asking anyone for help. She spots Sansa and waves over frantically.

“God am I glad to see you” she hisses to her sister as she stands beside her “Bran will not shut up about his psychology class at college”

“I’m standing right here” Bran scolds, those dark eyes of his narrowed at his sisters.

“Jon is here by the way” Arya’s voice softens a little as she chooses to ignore Bran’s irritation; her body leaning closer to Sansa’s. She looks away but she can feel those Stark eyes on her, watching every flicker of her expression.

She spots him near the drinks table, broad shouldered and curly haired beside her oldest brother, that stupid lopsided smile on his face that he always wore when he was content. She aches at the fact that she can’t make him smile like that anymore- it is now Daenerys who gets to keep his smiles all to herself. But Sansa will hold them in her memories forever more.

Some small part of her wants to rush over there and throw a glass of prosecco over his head, followed by her kicking and screaming at him. But it is only a small part that holds anger towards him; the rest of her just feels lost and empty without his arms. How was she to ever know that a business trip overseas would end everything between them? That a fleeting tryst on the ferry to Copenhagen with an exotic blonde would destroy everything she’d ever felt for him since secondary school.

“Excuse me but I need a drink” she doesn’t even wait to hear a response from her siblings, and maybe they never offered her one but she is gone from them before she can find out. The bar is crowded with family and friends and she is stopped by her uncle Edmure and his young wife, Olenna Tyrell and of course her future sister in law Margaery. All want to know the same thing- _“How are you doing Sansa?”_ she doesn’t miss how Olenna Tyrell’s eyes flicker to the handsome young man who stands by Robb.

 _Does everyone know,_ she wonders to herself, _is this the news of the world?_

Finally a drink is in her hand and all she remembers telling the barman is to make it a double. She lets her lips soak themselves with the alcohol before she swallows the thick gold liquid. _Scotch_. Her father’s drink. She wishes now more than ever that her father was here. He would have stood by her side protectively and would have glared at Jon all night until he left. Now it is she who feels awkward and out of place.

Jaime Lannister sits at the end of the bar with Sansa’s good friend Brienne, the tall blonde and the handsome businessman throwing her looks every now and again that she pretends not to notice. Brienne has been concerned about her since she had heard Robb and Margaery were getting hitched and planned to have Jon as their best man, but Sansa just puts on smiles for her whenever she asks.

Jaime had even been caring towards her when he had heard of the reason Jon and her had broken up, a care that she hates to admit she welcomes. He is as handsome as Jon is, with that aged sort of look that makes her heart flutter. She takes her eyes away from him though and lets them rest in her glass- deciding the attractiveness of alcohol is more inviting than that of men.

Time seems to pass in an awful blur of awkwardness- from talking to older relatives to trying to avoid Jon’s gaze all night Sansa feels as if she’s trapped in her own hell. Thank god for the open bar service or else she would have run screaming hours ago. Music has started to play somewhere but she doesn’t care to find out exactly, all Sansa does now is sit and drink slowly- the scotch burning the back of her throat.

It is close to midnight when she feels him standing beside her. He always had that way about him- that warm presence that made her feel suddenly aware of him. She feels that now, and she hates it. He still wears the same cologne she realises-  the same cologne that clings to the t shirt she has kept in her apartment since they broke up- the one she cries into some nights when it all gets too much.

Maybe the scotch has made her braver- or crazier- but she dares herself to look at him, and when she does she regrets it instantly. Her heart had not been prepared to have him so close after so long and for him to look so beautiful. She feels like she did the first time she had ever saw him as the new guy in town- walking across the village green with his long black hair past his shoulders and his school tie loose around his neck. Her heart had stopped then, and it stops again now.

He’s different than he was then, even more different than he was a few months ago. He wears his hair in a leather tie at the back of his head, and he has a scar across his eye. Some part of her wants to ask him what happened, but then she remembers she’s not supposed to care anymore.

“Sansa” his voice shakes as he says her name, and gone is the smile he had on minutes before as he had stood with Sam, laughing and joking. Now he chews his bottom lip and wrings his hands on top of the bar.

“Jon” Sansa quips coldly, gripping her glass of half empty scotch and wishing somehow that it was acceptable to smash it over his head. Her eyes tear away from him- narrowed into slits. She can hear him sigh heavily from where he stands, and she imagines his broad shoulders drooping as he does.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all night long” he tells her, and she scoffs a little as she raises her glass to her mouth. She feels as cold as Jaime Lannister’s sister.

“Really?” she can hear her voice coming from her mouth but it doesn’t sound like her own- it’s harsher than it’s ever been.

“Can we? Talk I mean?” he moves closer to her now, and she feels as if she’ll get sick with the feel of him close to her. _Cheater_ , she wants to scream at him.

“Fine. Let’s talk” Sansa looks at him then with that icy Stark look in her eyes. It’s a mask she now wears, the icy facade an act that she has all but mastered these past few months when anyone brings him up. She hopes it’s working because she feels like a scared little girl underneath it all.

“Not here” his lips move so tantalisingly together, and she hates the fact that she is slightly tipsy and is allowing herself to gawk at him “smoke?” he offers as he inclines his head to the door.

Maybe she should have told him to fuck off, get lost, hit the high road but she finds herself slipping off the bar stool and following him out to the rooftop smoking area. Arya watches them dumbfoundedly as they leave, and Sansa bristles with the uncomfortable weight of her stare. The smoking area is empty, and is lit up by the large purple hued lights that hang from somewhere high. Jon pulls out two cigarettes from his packet, and uses the candle that is lighting on the table to start each one. His hand shakes a little as he hands one to Sansa.

They used to do this at every party or nightclub they went to- it had become some sort of a tradition even though both of them were non smokers during the day. It had been how they had shared their first kiss; last year at Arya and Gendry’s New Years Eve party. Sansa has become accustomed to smoking a pack a week now; sneakily smoking during her lunch break and doing it freely at home while crying over Grey’s reruns. She wishes she could tell him, as she takes the first drag, that she only smokes now because the taste reminds her of all those rooftop kisses they had shared.

She keeps tight lipped however, only allowing the cigarette to pass her lips.

“So um how have you been?” Jon asks her, and she sighs with her eyes closed, opening them again and choosing to stare at the skyline instead of at him.

_How have I been? Desperate, hopeless, lonely. Missing you more and more each day._

“Fine” another drag of the cigarette- longer this time.

“Good” she can tell he’s awkward when he goes to run his hand through his hair but realises it’s tied up “so how’s work? The kids how are they?”

“Works good, the kids are good. I have first graders this year” Sansa explains briefly, her voice hoarse now from the tobacco. Jon just looks at her as he takes a drag, the amber ash receding at the top of the cigarette. He shuffles a little where he stands and Sansa slowly edges away from him.

“How’s your mother? I didn’t see her here tonight” Jon asks her, grey eyes locked with hers. She tears her gaze away from him then and angrily crumples her cigarette butt into the ash tray that lies on the wooden table.

“Why are you here, Jon?” Sansa quips at him, fuming just a little.

“Robb and Margaery invited me I’m supposed to be their -”

“No I meant why are you _here_? With me! Why did you ask me to come out here? You wanted to talk so talk!” her arms are crossed over her chest tightly and in a wild moment she’s brought back to the time when they were in school and he refused to give her a Pokemon card until she kissed him on the cheek. She had stamped her foot and crossed her arms like her mother did when she was cross with her father, but in the end she had given in and kissed him. She wonders if she would be so easily swayed now.

“I never properly apologised for what I did to you” his voice is so quiet that it’s almost lost in the din of the city below- almost washed away with the honking of taxis and the loudness of people in the bars across the street.

“Apologise? I don’t accept any apology you have to give me” her eyes are a warning for him not to go on, sharp and blue and cutting like glass but Jon just stands up straighter and continues on.

“Sansa please, I want you to know I am so unbelievably sorry for what I did to you”

“I _know_ you’re incredibly sorry! I _know_ you made a stupid mistake! But you have to want to forgive someone if you accept their apology and I don’t accept yours! I will never, as long as I live, forgive you for this” the buzz of the scotch and the iron mask she had on are long gone, and in their place they have left a quivering mess of a girl. She can feel the wetness on her cheeks when a gust of wind softly blows through the rooftop.

“Sansa I don’t want us to carry on like this for the rest of our lives! Please we’re meant to be together” his eyes are wide and wet, and her heart aches for him inside her chest. She wants to cry into him and tell him that she knows they’re meant for each other, that she wants to spend the rest of her life with him but she can’t allow herself to do that. Not right now at this stage.

“ ** _I trusted you!_** I put all my trust in you, and you broke it! After Joffrey I thought you’d understand how fragile I was but you didn’t think about that when you were fucking some other woman! You didn’t care that you were hurting me the very same way he did” her shoulder pushes into him harshly as she moves to get past him, but his strong hand wraps around her arm.

“ ** _I’m still not over you_**. I can’t move past this, Sansa. I hate myself for ruining this between us but I don’t know what came over me. We were just moving so fast, and I was scared of how quickly I was falling in love with you. You were talking about moving in with each other and I panicked!” Jon rushes, his words earning a small laugh from her.

“Oh so it’s _my_ fault you boned someone else? Oh now I understand” she rips her arm from his grip and something in her head tells her she’ll probably be bruised if she looks.

“Sansa please I’m begging for you to forgive me. You’ve no idea how much I hate myself for hurting you” Jon cries, and in some mad moment Sansa actually thinks he’s about to bend down on his knees and _really_ beg. But he stays standing where he is, broad shoulders hunched with regret.

“I know exactly how much, because _I_ hate you. I hate you” she screams at him, not caring if the people on the street below hear them or if her entire family witnesses her screaming at her ex boyfriend “you’re the worst person I’ve ever met!”

He calls her name as she turns to leave but she does not answer him, just whirls around on him in a rush of flame coloured cheeks and fiery hair. They are so close right now that she can smell his cologne clearly- it’s heady and earthy just like him and she feels more intoxicated now than she had been while she had been downing scotch. She wants to kiss him madly, and the desire almost threatens to take her over and drive her insane because she knows he’d kiss her back. But she just balls her fists and lets the angry tears roll out of her eyes unapologetically.

“You know what the worst part is? I still want you, even now after all of this I still want you. **_The worst part is, I loved you anyway_**. I think I probably still love you, and I hate myself for that. I hate myself more than I hate you, isn’t that pathetic?” the tears that run down her mouth are salty and bitter, yet familiar to her- she’s cried so much these past few months without him.

“Come back to me please” his large and rough hands are around her soft face in an instant, his hard thumbs rubbing circles on her cheeks. She leans into his touch; the touch that she has craved for months and she despises her own weakness.

“I just……I need time, Jon” Sansa pulls away, her shaking hands frantically wiping her tears away. He looks blurry as she stares at him, a mass of black and grey through her tear filled eyes and the vision of him is gone in an instant as she turns and walks away.

She doesn’t look back once as she pushes her way out of the restaurant and doesn’t stop for Arya who calls after her over the music. She doesn’t turn back as she clambers into her car, her hands shaking as she puts the key in the ignition, her mind regretting all those drinks she had. Only when she is home does she break down like she has wanted to all night and she cries as she slips on Jon’s old shirt. She spends the night that way, outside on the balcony, wishing the cigarettes that she smokes are Jon’s lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a jaimsa prompt for anonymous on tumblr

He feels like he always does when he’s near her- empty yet full, with a sense that he should do something- _anything_. But he never does- he never _has_. And now as he watches Sansa walk along the rooftop of her apartment block, the glittering fairy lights that are strung up illuminating her in light, he realises that it’s too late. Way too late.

The shiny engagement ring that rests on her elegant hand is the ticking time bomb that has finally gone off. And now another man has claimed her. Why he had agreed to come to this chaotic engagement party is beyond him- but maybe in the back of his mind he knows it’ll be the goodbye he’s been avoiding for too long.

He’s loved her since the day she came to his office as an awkward and lanky intern, with too many freckles and a voice that stammered each time someone spoke to her. She’s now their departments favourite employee and one Jaime’s boss sees fit to pair him with for business pitches. He used to hate her. _Hate_ _her_. And now he can barely breathe out of love for her every time she’s near.

She would infuriate him with her soft blush and that way of meekly speaking when she had an idea, or the way she would twirl her hair around her pen in a meeting when she was bored. The way she would nervously laugh when being introduced to people at business functions, her cheeks reddening out of modesty when one of the many moguls would compliment her.

How she used to make him boil with frustration and annoyance and _love_. Most of all love which he never thought he’d feel for someone like her. He used to be this sure and confident business broker who knew the ins and outs of everything- yet with Sansa he turns to a quivering college student all over again.

She’s fluid and graceful as she makes her way through the guests, that beam on her face the thing he hates the most. He wishes he could have made her that happy, wishes he could have put that ring on her finger. She is dressed like a bohemian masterpiece- feathered earrings cascading down past her jaw and mingling with the red of her hair, an ivory dress that billows at the sleeves clinging to her body. He has to let a smile twitch across his face when he eyes her suede cowboy boots. She is surprisingly eccentric given the way she dresses at the office. Plain and grey- like most other women he has encountered there.

“Jaime!” she exclaims as she strides over to him, the large faux elephant tusk necklace swinging across her chest. Her arms are wrapped around him in an instant and she squeezes him tight. _Lemons_. He can smell it off her hair.

“Hey Sansa” Jaime croaks out, his voice rough and thick with sleeplessness. Could she tell that he had bags from not sleeping? That he had not slept all week thinking of her marrying someone else?

“I’m surprised you came” she tells him, her crystal blue eyes taking him in as she brings the glass of whiskey and cola to her lips. He wonders if he kissed them would they taste of Jameson.

“You are?” he asks her with a cough, his green eyes tearing from her lips and over to the makeshift bar that people are now flocked to. He wishes he had a drink in his hand. Just whiskey. No cola.

“Yeah, Brienne said you were at some meeting” Sansa tells him, looking behind her to where their fellow colleague stands- tall and magnificent in a pantsuit.

“Oh yeah I was, but I made it out early and said I’d swing by. I left a gift on the table by the way” he adds, pushing a slightly shaky hand through his thick mop of blond hair. He despises how nervous he is.

“Thank you Jaime, you shouldn’t have” her hair is scarlet like hearts blood underneath the dim amber of the fairy lights, and her face is half shadowed in the washy light of the moon and the other in the warm orange glow of artificial bulbs. She has makeup on but he can still trace the freckles underneath with his eyes, joining up the red and brown blotches like a puzzle. A stray hair lies across her lip and his hand aches to brush it away- kiss it away. But it lays there like a horrid warning that her lips are not for him to touch.

“So how was the meeting? Not too boring I hope?” she asks him and he shakes his head with a faint smile, his heart picking up in his chest at the thought of what he’s about to say.

“It wasn’t really a meeting. More like an interview”

“An interview?” she stutters confusedly “surely not a job interview”

“It was a follow up interview of one I did a few weeks ago. The company want to transfer me to their commercial department in Dorne” he watches as the sapphire in her eyes dim to a midnight blue, dark and washed out and nothing akin to the excitement they had held moments ago. Some cruel and twisted part of Jaime’s conscience is glad she feels momentary sadness- he hates to think she can remain happy at his departure.

“Dorne? But…..you can’t just _move_ _away_. You’re the best financial advisor our company has” Sansa tells him, a certain struggle twisting her beautiful features. He can tell she’s trying to keep it together. But does she mourn the loss of his company? His friendship? Or is there something else she’ll miss that she does not obviously display around him.

“And that’s why they want to transfer me and let me head their department there, it makes logical sense Sansa” there he is again putting on that nonchalant tone of elder wisdom, the sort of tone that deflects all his caring under it.

“When do you leave?” Sansa asks him, and he notices then that the glass she holds in her hand is empty, save for a few chunks of ice that clink softly at the bottom; melting against the last remnants of whiskey that swirl around her glass. He doesn’t remember her drinking it all.

“Three days. Everything’s finalised” he shrugs like it’s not hurting him to leave it all behind, to leave _her_ behind “I leave knowing the department is in good hands. It’s up to you and Brienne now”

“You won’t be here for the wedding?” she asks him, and even though the wedding is not for another few months and he could make it back if he really wanted to, he shakes his head.

“I won’t have the time, Sansa. I’m really sorry”

She just smiles forlornly at him, a glistening forming in her eyes. _Good_ , he thinks, _cry over me. I’ve done enough crying over you._

But she does not cry, just widens that beautiful smile on her face and raises her empty glass.

“Well then congratulations. I think a drink is needed”

He’s now had one drink too many, and all the neat whiskey that sits in his system is slowly making its way to his head, dizzying his movements and threatening to drown him in a dark pit of self loathing. The lights are blurred above the dance floor and he can’t tell if it’s an effect or if the volume of alcohol he has consumed is making his vision warped. He guessed the latter is true until he sees her- dancing on the dance floor- sloppily twirling with her fiance.

He can see her clearly- of that he’ll never stop. Sansa is not blurred but defined and beautiful and his eyes fill with a mist as the blond man swings her around and pulls her close. If he squints just enough he can imagine that the man is him- a couple of years younger with a face less weathered and old.

But that man is not him; Jaime is not the one who gets to share her bed or her secrets, he’s not the one who gets to hold her in the night and kiss her while his hands tangle in her fiery hair. He’s the man who has pined after her since she was a twenty year old intern. Now she is coming close to twenty four and has a ring on her finger. He wishes then in his drunken stupor that he can go over there and tell them that they are too young to be married, that she needs an experienced man. Someone older. Someone like _him_.

She’ll never want him. Not like he wants her.

The bar stool wobbles slightly as he gets off it, and he’s surprised at how shaky his legs seem as he pushes past people who dance whimsically with drinks in their hands. He can tell Brienne is eyeing him from where she stands with her ginger husband, but he does not look back at her. His best friend knows all too well who he has given his heart to, and he does not wish to explain to her why it breaks so harshly now. Or why he runs away like a frightened child.

The fire escape is rickety and Jaime can’t tell if it really does shake and move as he walks or if that’s the whiskey making him feel as if the world is tilting. He makes his way down the winding steps and almost crashes onto the pavement- the soles of his feet burning through his expensive shoes as he does. He’s only stumbled halfway down the sidewalk when he hears her voice calling. Some part of him thinks he’s imagining it- that never in this reality would Sansa Stark be chasing him down a fire escape and calling her lungs out to him.

“Jaime!” he can hear it clearly now, as if she’s right behind him, and when he whirls around there she is- like a fiery mass of feathers and freckles as she runs towards him.

“Jaime wait!” she pants, one hand clutching her side “where are you going?”

“Home” his voice is cutting- like a shard of glass and he turns back around and starts to walk again. He wishes to walk her out of his mind- walk the love he feels for her out of his body.

“Home? But you’ve only been here two hours” she’s almost breathless as she runs ahead of him, her short legs desperately trying to keep up with his long strides. _Two hours_ , he thinks, _feels like I’ve been in this hell an eternity_.

“Jaime please! I want you to stay and have a drink with me. Before you leave” gods she sounds so desperate, so sad, yet he can’t stop to think of it. He has to keep going because if he looks back at her he knows he’ll end up crumbling.

“Go back Sansa, go back to Harry or whatever the fuck his name is! Just leave me alone” he dodges her arm as she attempts to stop him, and he can see her fallen face as he storms past her.

“What is the matter with you? I invite you here and you storm off? What’s the matter?” she repeats and he stops dead on the pavement, his heaving back to her and his fists clenched by his sides. The rush of his beating heart sounds like the ocean in his ears, and he wishes he was near the ocean right now because he’d dive into it and drown himself. But he drowns himself in other ways as he turns around to her.

“Fuck it!” he shouts, watching as she flinches a little “I love you!”

Her small and freckled face is in his hands before he can truly stop himself, and those magical blue eyes are locked with his- wide and terrified, her pupils blown with shock and something else that makes Jaime feel giddy in the pit of his stomach.

“I love you” his lips are on hers, pecking softly yet sure and he breaks away every now and then to tell her the same thing. She doesn’t push him away but her hands are limp by her sides, and Jaime aches for her to touch him with them. To hold him like he’s always wanted.

“I love you” he presses his forehead to hers, and hopes that he can make them into one, to get as close to her as possible. She doesn’t speak and Jaime thinks he might burst into tears at the sheer torture of it all, but before he can pull away her small hands are in his hair, pulling him to her.

Her lips, her tongue, her soft breasts pressed to his chest, her curly hair and feathered earrings that blow against his face and tickle him in the night breeze are the only things he focuses on. She tastes of whiskey, he realises, his earlier observation had been correct. Her tongue is bitter with Jameson and her lips are sweet like cola, and he decides then and there that it’s his favourite taste. Perhaps he’ll become acquired to drinking his whiskey with it next time if it’ll remind him of this.

The brick wall close by becomes a resting place for her back, and Jaime’s strong hands grip her under her dress as he lifts up her legs. He’d compared her to a puzzle earlier, but now he finds that he’s the missing piece when he fits between her legs so perfectly. She sighs against his lips and her nimble fingers comb through his hair, the sensation making him shiver against her.

He’s sure they’ll get carried away, but before anything can get too far he feels her lips ripping away from his.

“Jaime, stop please” Sansa’s voice is shaking just like her hands and Jaime gently sets her down onto her feet.

“Sansa I-”

“No stop!” she holds up her hands and stops him from advancing close to her, and he does stop, right where he stands with a broken look on his face “I can’t believe I just did that”

“Did that mean nothing to you? What I said, is that nothing?” Jaime asks her, his heart racing in his chest and the alcohol in his system swirling fresh in his body and threatening to make him even more drunk. She looks at him then with her blue eyes rimmed in smoky lines of black and grey, the two colours now running into each other.

“No it didn’t mean nothing” she whispers, two shaking hands tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Then why…?” 

“I’m getting married!” she nearly shrieks hysterically “I’m getting fucking married you idiot! And you tell me now… _now_ …that you love me? Jesus Christ Jaime you have really bad fucking timing do you know that? I pine after you for three whole years and you tell me now? Did you not see how I looked at you? How I didn’t date anyone the first two years I worked with you in hopes you might ask me out? I loved you, Jaime Lannister. I fucking _loved_ you”

He’s never heard her swear before, not once in the four years he’s known her yet she’s swore so many times in the last minute that it’s making him dizzy. It seems the last four years rush before his eyes and he tries to think of all the times they were alone, that feeling of tension between them and those stolen glances. But he had always thought he was the only one who felt something.

“You don’t now though, do you?” his voice is as quiet as it’s ever been he surmounts, and somehow even though she is all but five foot five he feels horrendously smaller in comparison to her. In the faint shimmer of moonlight he can see a small tear cascade down her cheek.

“I love you. Even now I still love you”

This time when he kisses her the taste of whiskey is washed away by the taste of her tears that run down her lips and mix with his, and it is slow and purposeful. In the back of his mind something tells him to savour this, to savour _her_. She’s only on loan to him now for a few moments, of that he is almost certain.

“Move to Dorne with me” he whispers against her lips, his strong hands winding in her hair and hoping he can stay tangled with her forever. But he feels her shake her head, and his crashing heart plummets in his chest.

“ _ **Why didn’t you say something?**_ ” Sansa whispers, her hands clenching the front of his jacket “why didn’t you say something sooner? I would’ve been with you in a heartbeat, but now I have Harry and I’m going to be his wife”

“Do you love him?” Jaime asks her, green meeting blue in a furious gaze as he stares at her.

“Yes” she answers too quickly but she pushes away from him and corrects herself “yes I love him, of course I do”

“You’d love me more, I know you would. And I’d love you more than he could, more than any man has ever loved any woman before. I’d love you that much. _I love you that much_ ” Jaime is pleading now, he feels like he could just throw himself on his knees and beg for her like one of those saps in the movies.  

“I can’t Jaime. I’m sorry” the word _goodbye_ is hidden in there somewhere, and Jaime sticks frozen to the ground as she turns away from him and walks down the sidewalk. He fails to come up with what to do next- does he call her name or run after her? He attempts to open his mouth but it stays glued shut, and the only sound he manages to make after a while is a desperate sob.

She is long gone, and he knows he has lost her forever this time. There is no going back now, he has confessed all and still she runs to another man. He stumbles out of the alleyway and looks down the street, hoping he’ll find her standing there waiting for him. But there is just darkness, and the only reminder of her is a mixture of whiskey and cola on his tongue.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sansalannistark asked:  
> Jaimsa - “did it take you long to move on from me?” - jaime in a relationship and Sansa pining after him? Pretty please hun? ;)

The clinking of champagne glasses and the soft murmur of conversations being spoken all at once are the only sounds she focuses on; the discussion of Henri Matisse and Marcel Duchamp long abandoned for her. Her friends however, including her sister who now stands proudly among these group of eccentric art students, continue discussing lines and strokes of paint brushes. Sansa can appreciate the creativity it must have taken to create the paintings that now hang on the walls of the viewing gallery, but she can not hold a conversation as boring as this one.

She is only here because of Arya. Only here because her sister had spent the last five years in art school pining over the fantasy that one day her work would be viewed in a showcase gallery as esteemed as this one, and now it’s a reality. Sansa takes a look at her sister over the raised rim of her champagne glass and manages a smile, a genuine one but one that doesn’t reach her ears. Arya looks happy, beaming and laughing as she speaks of what inspired her art with the flock of junior art students. The fact that her widest smiles are not saved for these fans of hers but for the man who strongly wraps an arm around her waist is what kills Sansa most. She loved Gendry as she loved all her brothers but how it hurt to see them love each other so much.

That was her at one stage, with her own man on her arm.

Suddenly her glass of champagne is empty and she finds another resting in her hands- cool and inviting and her lips are pressed to the icy rim before she even second guesses it. She wonders if there is a bar nearby that she can go to- somewhere with something a little stronger.

Her eyes wander over the painted canvases as she weaves her way through small groups of stuffy art curators and professors, or just rich people who wish to bid for one of Arya Starks masterpieces. She tries to become lost in the beauty of the paintings like so many still standing people are doing, but she fails- the cruel memory she has tried to suppress rushing to the surface.

She finds it hard to not think about him- about the man who broke her heart and never came back to repair it. The man who she had thought was the one- the one she would grow old with. At times like this; when she can view the simplistic and natural happiness of everyone else she feels it the worst, like a quick stabbing at her heart when it reminds itself that it is no longer happy. Not without _him_. _Jaime_ _Lannister_.

Sansa wonders- as she sets down yet another empty glass- how she can make an escape from here. She thinks of lying to Arya about some ailment or other, but her conscience tells her how disappointed Arya would be if Sansa left before her speech. Maybe the London air might clear her head a little, and she feels slightly clumsy on her feet as she turns towards the door.

It is then that she sees him- like a vision materialised from her dreams- standing at the doorway. He is blond and glorious and her heart picks up in her chest and threatens to hammer itself out of her body.

She murmurs a soft _sorry_ as she tries to turn around and knocks into a suited waiter with a tray of glasses. He only stumbles a little and smiles, offering her the tray. _Great_ , Sansa thinks, _he must see I’m stressed._ She happily takes a glass and sips it gently as she once again looks to the door. _Gin_ , she thinks as she tastes the drink, _something stronger at last_.

Jaime Lannister- the man who walked away and left her a year ago- is standing there by the door and all she can do is stay motionless and gawk at him. He looks just the same yet so different than the last time she saw him a year ago- a desperate look on his face as he had told her to pack her stuff and leave. He looks calmer now, she notices, but somehow he looks tired. As tired as Sansa looks.

He is beautiful standing there deep in conversation with the usher at the door, and Sansa knows if she is to turn around every woman in here will be staring. That had always been the way with Jaime, he was captivating and otherworldly- no wonder he had been desperate to get rid of Sansa. A prudish teaching student who had no idea how to live in his world.

Another stab to the heart- this time greater than before- when a woman slinks alongside him and wraps an arm in his. He is momentarily drawn away from his conversation to peck her on the cheek, and Sansa watches from the back of the gallery with a heart that threatens to stop. _He’s found somebody else_ , whispers a dark voice, _someone better than you_.

She looks exactly like the type of woman she always imagined Jaime should be with. She is dark haired with that skin that looks like it was worshipped by the sun- and with a face that could rival the leading fashion models. She looks close to Jaime’s age- late thirties early forties perhaps, not like Sansa who has only just turned twenty five.

_This can’t work anymore Sansa! I’m too old for you, too broken._

The words echo in her head now and they seem to get louder and louder- close to a shrill- as Jaime and the dark haired beauty make their way down the steps and into the viewing area. Her heart picks up as he looks around and Sansa turns quickly to avoid his gaze. Somehow she knows he’ll find her- the gallery and apparently the world is not that big.

He does find her- alone under the hanging lightbulbs with a glass of gin in her hand- and her eyes intent of one of Arya’s murals. A beautiful canvas of a wolf- one with eyes eerily similar to her fathers. She has her back to him and is unaware of his presence, but it gives Jaime a chance to take her in. She’s cut her hair- he notices first- it does not hang past her back any longer but rests near the dip below her shoulder blades in the sort of soft curls Jaime used to love running his fingers through. Green was always his favourite colour on her, and the green dress that is printed with daisies is magnificent with her skin colour.

How he loves her still.

“Sansa?” Jaime asks, the name that used to be so familiar now sounding foreign and unknown coming from his mouth. He hasn’t said it in so long. She turns then slowly, and eyes him with those eyes of sapphire blue. He wishes he could die now, quick and sure, because in those eyes he sees a pain that never used to be there. _It’s because of you_ , he tells himself.

“Jaime” Sansa greets him, a sort of half hearted smile on her face. He used to make her smile so wide she felt her face would crack, he used to make her laugh so much tears would roll down her cheeks and her sides would feel bruised for days after. How times have changed.

“It’s been a while” he tells her, moving to stand close to her. It’s odd to be so near the woman he once shared everything with and feel a strange barrier between them. They used to love so passionately and now they meet like strangers.

“Yes, it has” Sansa answers back, her eyes scanning over his face as he stands this close. His skin looks tanned and Sansa guesses he must have been away- somewhere far and foreign. Perhaps that’s where he met that mysterious beauty who now wanders around alone, mingling with socialites. His green eyes study the canvas in front of them but Sansa watches him- studying how his white shirt and blue suit jacket make him look as handsome as ever. But did he always have those wrinkles near his eyes? Those grey hairs through the blond?

“How have you been?” Jaime asks her, his eyes returning to hers. She looks quickly away and gulps, her dry mouth clasping to the rim of her gin glass.

“I’ve been great”

_Liar_ , the voice in the back of her head screams at her, _you’ve cried over this man each night for the past year._

“And you?” she asks him, her voice small and meek. He gazes down at her from his height, and his lips twitch into a smile that she can tell isn’t genuine.

“I’ve been good. Busy with work and traveling a lot” Jaime tells her “you still in school?”

“I graduated actually” she finds her heart clenches in her chest at the thought that Jaime should have been there that day, and all the other important days where she needed him “2.1 degree in education”

“That’s amazing, Sansa” it hurts that he sounds so genuine, like he actually cares what happens in her life. Yet all she wants in her life is him “so now you’re finished school what are you doing?”

“I got a teaching position. In France” she finishes, watching as his eyes scan her face. Somehow everything else has faded away, and now all she knows is him.

“In France? You always talked about France”

_How dare he_ , she fumes silently, _how dare he bring up my past dreams, things I used to dream of when I was with him_. She no longer wishes to think of the connection of him and the past. It’s too painful.

“Arya is very talented” he says, deciding to change the subject and for that Sansa is grateful.

“Yeah she is. Did she invite you here?” Sansa asks him, now curious to know how he came to be here.

“I actually invited her. My company owns this gallery” Sansa nearly chokes on the grape that had sat floating in her glass of gin, and has to take a breath before she speaks again.

“Your company?” Sansa questions him. Lannister Enterprises owned and managed everything from art galleries to real estate, and were one of the leading private companies in Europe.

“When I saw Arya’s name come up in meetings I just knew I had to showcase her. I remembered how talented she was” Jaime explains, an aged hand running through his long hair.

“I know she’s grateful, she’s been waiting for this her whole life” a strand of red hair is tucked behind her ear, and Jaime watches fascinatedly at it. How he loved the colour of her hair- more beautiful than any painting in any gallery in the world.

“Your father would have been proud” those words cut her deeply where she stands, and when she turns to look him in the eye she feels stabbing all over her body. He shuffles a little on his feet and looks down, awkward now that he’s broached the subject that’s been on his mind since they started talking tonight.

“I was sorry to hear of his passing” his body is closer to hers now, angled in a way that cuts them off from everyone else. Even still he feels the need to keep her close- to protect her from everything- even if if that protection is needed from his own choice of conversation topic “you got my flowers, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you” Sansa coughs at the end, a finger now interested in running around the rim of her glass over and over again.

“We had our differences Sansa but he was a great man, an honourable man” he looks at her now with a deep sadness and regret in his eyes that she knows is real, and how she hates his sincerity. It makes it all the worse knowing he holds some care for her still. “I only wish I had of been there for you”

“Well you weren’t there, Jaime” she’s had enough now of talking to him, and being near him and being reminded of the way those lips used to kiss her and whisper _I love you_ into the darkness of their room, or the way those hands used to grip her naked skin; his fingers tracing his name on her freckled back as she lay panting beside him. Does he do the same with his dark haired woman?

“Sansa” he starts when she slams the gin glass down on a ledge under a painting- his large hand coming to grab her arm but she shoves him away.

“You weren’t there” she repeats, feeling like a child when those traitor tears prick her eyes and a shaking hand comes and wipes them away in fear he might see them “ _you_ left _me_ , remember? So don’t stand there and tell me you wish you had of been there for me because you chose not to be! That was your decision not mine”

“I just meant that-”

“I don’t care what you meant, I don’t want to hear it” she’s aware that there are other people around so she starts to walk away from him, elbowing her way past a group of suited men who talk in hushed tones of what she is not certain. She must look grief stricken as the usher by the door fumbles to give her her denim jacket back. She takes it a little roughly from his hands but shoots him an apologetic smile as she storms through the door. She’ll explain it to Arya later why she had to leave early.

She hears her name being called as she almost runs down the dark street, the urge to look back almost killing her. But Jaime is behind her in a couple of strides and she is spun around to face him, her red hair whipping around her face.

“Sansa you’ve taken me up wrong. I didn’t mean to hurt you back there I was just -”

“Just leave me alone Jaime, you did a perfectly good job the first time” she fumes at him, but as she stares at him in the dark she can tell his expression turns defensive.

“You know why I left you” he tells her, angrily shoving hair from his face “I want you to have the best life you can, not wasting it with me”

“I was never wasting it with you. I’m wasting my life without you” Sansa all but whispers, her hands by her sides starting to shake a little.

“I’m not good enough for you. I never was good enough for you, you should understand that” Jaime pleads, and Sansa is reminded of that horrible night when he ended it all. Perhaps it was because Sansa was starting college, and entering into a new chapter of her life that Jaime felt incompetent to accept her love. He was a lot older and had done most of his living while Sansa was only starting hers.

“You were always good enough for me, you were more than I ever deserved” she’s crying now, the tears spilling hot and heavy from her eyes.

“Jaime?” comes a voice from the gallery entrance and both of them look to see the brunette beauty standing outside, her dark eyes scanning the streets for him. Jaime looks back at Sansa, some sort of apology in his eyes but what he’s apologising for evades her.

“ ** _Did it take you long to move on from me?_** ” her voice seems to be part of the soft and gentle night time breeze that flits through the air and Jaime’s breath altogether stops.

“Sansa I-”

“She’s very beautiful” once again she doesn’t let him finish whatever apology he has worked up to say, but throws him a watery smile that is met with tears from her eyes “I hope you’re happy with her”

She turns from him then, her hands frantically wiping the tears from her cheeks and tries her hardest to keep walking away from him, but the urge is too strong just to look at him once more.

“I saw the good in you, Jaime Lannister. And it _was_ good enough for me. You should have just trusted me” and with those last words she turns away, swallowed by the deep darkness that curtains the city and Jaime watches her forlornly, wishing he could run after her and sweep her into his arms.

But he stands there pining, and not doing what he wished he was brave enough to do- to just love her. He answers her question then as he stands there alone in the dark, and hopes that somehow she’ll know deep down in her heart how he feels.

“ _Did it take you long to move on from me?_ ” she had asked him.

“I’ll never move on from you, Sansa Stark”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For jiyyaaa on tumblr :)

**_August 1914_ **

She looks out of place here among the trees and the dirt- Jon’s small stone cabin nothing compared to the grand house that lies across the hill. She wears her fine laces and silks now, an ivory dress draped across her elegant frame, a string of pearls across her neck. Lady Sansa is a vision of privileged England, and Jon is her father’s gamekeeper.

He eyes her underneath the peak of his tweed cap, a dark black curl hanging in one eye and he swings the axe he had been using over his shoulder. He does not wish to speak to her now, and before she can lock eyes with his he looks away. He brings the axe down onto the block of wood- hard and angry.

She looks so out of place here- yet she always finds a home in his bed late at night when the house beyond the hill sleeps.

“Jon” her voice is angry, and for one moment Jon believes that if he turns around it won’t be her storming across the wooded path, but the Lady Catelyn. He expected her anger of course, but _he_ is the one who has every right to be angry.

“Sansa” he greets her after she huffs her way beside him. It’s not _Lady_ _Sansa_ to him- not anymore- not seriously. He can’t bring himself to address her as such, not after she has spent almost a year writhing under him late into the night. Not after they tell each other their deep confessions of love. He’s loved her since he was a boy, since he was a young stable hand and she the privileged lady. Her standing has not changed at all even though his has. He no longer looks after fiery horses but hunts and manages the Stark land. He does however, manage a fiery woman, the very one who stands before him with a glaring look in her eyes.

She’s been crying- he can tell as he looks into those crystal blue eyes. Some small part of him feels guilty but he swallows it down. The axe is swung over his shoulder again as he turns away from her; his strides longer than hers.  

“My father tells me you are to leave for France” her voice is soft and gentle, with that deep rooted accent of privilege in her tone that Jon should despise. But he doesn’t- he loves the way she speaks- the way she says his name.

“Your father is correct” he keeps walking towards his stone house, the flimsy door swung open by one kick of his foot. There’s not much in here save for a table that holds a wrapped up loaf of bread and a vase of wildflowers- flowers that Sansa picks for him. His bed is old but sturdy and he throws the axe onto it with a great thud. He keeps the bible by his bedside table even though he does not believe in God, and within the pages are pressed thistles- the very first flowers she had picked for him when he had moved onto the grounds of this forest.

“You _promised_ me, Jon Snow. You promised me you wouldn’t enlist” Sansa is a whirl of pinned red curls and ivory lace as she ascends on Jon. Her eyes and voice are frantic and he tears his own grey ones away from her, not able to look at her. He sits down on the edge of his bed then, his cap thrown from his head onto the grey blanket.

“Aye, I promised” his voice is rough with a Northern accent- so different from hers “but I can’t stay here while all the other men go out and fight”

“You sound like my brother, like Robb, and he’s dead now Jon. Robb is dead, buried somewhere in France like some forgotten hero. Do you want that to happen to you? Do you want to leave me here mourning you for the rest of my life?”

“Mourn me?” he scoffs as he shoots her a dark glare, his eyes taking in each flicker of her face as it falls. She is beautiful in all her agitation, and each pout of her stubborn lips makes Jon want to kiss her. But he will not bring himself to kiss her- not now- not after hearing the news that had broken his heart.

“You seem inclined into thinking that I would not mourn you if you perished on the battlefield, is this true?” she smells of lemons and of heather, and when he looks at the hem of her skirt he can see the small flecks of the purple flower stuck to the lace from when she’d walked here.

“You’d forget about me, Lady Sansa” Jon rises from the bed- her title a sneer on his lips, and he pushes past her and out the door, the tiny cabin growing claustrophobic.

“Forget about you?” Sansa all but whispers as she follows the broad shouldered gamekeeper from his cabin “I love you. More than anything in this world, and you think I would forget that love so easily? _**Doesn’t my love mean anything?**_ ”

“It means nothing!” Jon turns on her, furious and fiery and he can see the tears begin to well in her crystal eyes, but he can not bring himself to feel any guilt.

“Jon….” the eloquent Lady stutters out, now not able to articulate any sort of sentence.

“Doesn’t _my_ love mean anything?” he repeats her question now, his voice shaking the same way his hands tremble by his sides “I’ve given you my heart and you throw it away! All for _Joffrey Baratheon_!”

Sansa freezes then, her heart ceasing to beat in her chest and she can feel the blood drain from her body slowly. Jon stands before her with his grey eyes full of something she saw in her own this morning- it’s a look of desperation and she knows if she was to hold a mirror to herself she would look the very same.

“You thought I wouldn’t hear how the Lady of Winterfell House is set to marry the most eligible Lord in all of Britain? I may be of common folk, your ladyship, but I am not as dim minded as you may assume” her small body is close to his, and he can almost feel her shaking against him. Her breath is light and fast- just like how the trees that surround him shake with the morning breeze. There is a red curl that has escaped her elegant upstyle and the hands that rest by his sides ache to push it behind her ear- but he doesn’t touch her.

He’s been fortunate to call her his for a time, even if it has been in secret. But she does not belong with men like him- men that are worn from work and hardship and who have seen the worst possible version of life. She belongs to summer while he is eternally in winter, and men like Joffrey who are privileged and rich can make her more happy than Jon ever could.

“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how” she pleads with him, her soft hands coming to grab one of his. His eyes look down at them- her hands white and clean and his rough with labour and stained black from his day of work “I never asked for this to happen Jon, I swear to you. I do not want to marry him but my father has arranged it. I don’t love him, Jon”

“You’ll grow to love him. He’ll give you children, and a fine house and money. What can I give you?” he pulls his hands away from her and once again walks past her, his feet taking him along the forest path.

“You’ve given me everything already, Jon Snow” she trails after him as he absentmindedly checks the traps he had set along the forests edge, the task something to distract himself from her. But it does not work.

“We can run away together. Go somewhere and never come back” she speaks of fairytales, Jon thinks, of things that are unattainable in this world. He can not keep her because she was never his to begin with, and perhaps that is why he has enlisted to fight in a war that has killed so many men. A quick death on a battlefield in France would be kinder than a long life without her in his arms.

“What could I give you? What would you do without all your finery?” he stands up and asks her, storm grey eyes boring into ocean blue “I can’t give you the life that he will”

“I would love you as I do now, and that would be enough. I’d be richer than I am now if I was able to love you for a lifetime” her sun stained cheeks glisten with a fresh track of tears as she blinks, and Jon’s gut twists in agony at the sight of her “just please don’t go to France”

“You’re better off without me” is what he tells her as her small hands wrap around his arm. He does not look at her as she attempts to pull him back with a whimper- but the heart inside his chest breaks even more.

“You think it but you’re wrong” Sansa cries to him “I will die without you”

_And I will die for you,_ he thinks to himself, _to rid you of me once and for all._

“I leave tomorrow. Goodbye Lady Sansa” he rips away from her, her nimble fingers trying to cling onto the sleeves of his shirt in vain.

She tries to call after him but he does not turn around- it’s easier this way. He can not seem to forgive her for being engaged to another man, but he is more angry at himself for deciding to love her. He has no right to be jealous or angry, and he certainly should not have a desire to become as far away from her as possible. But how can he stay here and know that she is married to someone else? That some other man holds her and loves her? He cannot bear it, and somehow the raging promise of bullets and Germans seem easier than dealing with heartache.

He hears his name being called in that sweet way again, but it fades as he disappears into the trees and the beautiful Sansa is left standing alone- waiting for him to come back. But he doesn’t. 

The echoing call of his name is the very thing he hears when he is lying in a deep trench in France, blood spurting out of his body- even then he can not seem to hear anything else. _Just her voice. Just his name._

It is sweet music to his ears, and her voice is the last thing he hears before his eyes close- his body falling asleep for the last time.


End file.
